


If The Suit Fits

by unbroken_halo



Category: NCIS
Genre: Background Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-03
Updated: 2013-05-03
Packaged: 2017-12-10 07:16:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/783304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unbroken_halo/pseuds/unbroken_halo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony thinks about Gibbs and his wardrobe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If The Suit Fits

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jacie3](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=jacie3).



> I saw this prompt from Jacie3 on the LJ comm ncis_slash_fic. Don't know if this is what the prompter meant but this is how it struck me.

** If The Suit Fits **

I watched Gibbs check the distance from Cait's Captain's bars to the end of her collar tips. Both of them looked smart. There's just something about a uniform. Even the Marines blue and tan, though not the best looking uniform, but definitely one of the most striking. That blood strip down Gibbs' leg, the sharp creases that weren't even marred by his knee bending. Laughingly, he spoke about it being a tighter fit, but it didn't matter. I could almost see him stand straighter, wearing the mantle of Marine once again. It's a sexy and dangerous look for him and, despite his Sears and Roebuck budget; he fills out a suit well.

I think, at the time, it's the best I've ever seen Gibbs look, until he shows up for Cait's funeral. The red of his tie the only spot of colour and I can hear the whispered apology to her carried on the wind. His face is grieved but he smiled when Abby played the jazz. He takes her arm and again, I am impressed that his cheap suit is like his uniform, armour worn to hide the soft interior inside.

The thing about Gibbs and his wardrobe that you have to remember is, despite the simple blandness of it, the suit does not make the man. The man makes the suit. I should know. I've tried to prove that statement for years. There are so many different designers hanging in my closet and for a moment, I indulge in a small fantasy of taking Gibbs out and dressing him.

Armani, Hugo Boss, Gucci or even Prada would cling to his body like a second skin. It would highlight his planes and angles, compliment that silver fox thing he's got going on. Greys, blues and unrelieved black on black couldn't even stand up to his formidable presence. The muted colours would only enhance and hone him.

I would watch the stylist measure and write down his height and weight. The girth of his hips and the perfect snug fit of his inseam. Oh, to be that tape measure. It's a fantasy I often repeat, late at night, and I see Gibbs sitting at his desk, glasses perched on his nose as he reads over another report. Never in a tie unless necessary and even then it feels forced. Like an uncomfortable fit. But his style never changes, and I really wouldn't want it to. The fantasy is fun though.

It isn't until we had to retrieve Ziva, though, that I realized it didn't matter any longer about what Gibbs wore. The minute he walked into that terrorist's camp, the desert camouflage concealing him as he took out Ziva's captor, put him back in that Marine state of mind. The stubble on his jaw and chin, a ghost of grey marching along his face, and the fatigue in his eyes did more for his reputation than any clothing ever could.

I bit my tongue that day, trying not to say anything because I could still feel the serum working through my veins. I licked my lips wanting, again, to strip him down and redress him in another something that would be just as impressive as the daily suits of armour he wore.

On the plane home, even after he'd cleared away the sand, I watched him slumber and imagined what he looked like under the suit. The dignity was still there in the inexpensive Henley and his trousers. His NCIS jacket wrapped about him, keeping him warm even though the heat of the day had permeated the plane.

Ziva was tucked up along his side, asleep as well, and I couldn't blame her, even though I wanted to be there. I wanted to smell that permanent scent of sawdust and bourbon that clung to him like cologne and be comforted for the experiences that had happened. I smiled, though, and McGee returned my grin.

I knew what he was thinking. We'd done a good thing, and all I could do was indulge myself about Gibbs in and out of his clothing.

I nodded at McGee and closed my eyes, imagining the killer look that Gibbs would have in a tuxedo.


End file.
